


How to Scale a Mountain (and Play Volleyball, Too)

by boy-thighs (sop)



Series: Sportsfighter [1]
Category: Starfighter (Comic), Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sports, M/M, Sportsfighter, Volleyball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sop/pseuds/boy-thighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the trick is to never look down; just aim straight for the top!</p><p>alternatively: that starfighter/haikyuu!! fic wherein cain spikes all of abel’s tosses and abel remembers that you can’t play this sport alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Scale a Mountain (and Play Volleyball, Too)

“It could be worse,” Helios mutters inside their group huddle.  
  
Phobos scowls from the other side of the circle. “How?!”  
  
“We could be down a whole set.”  
  
Selene sighs, clutching his forehead exasperatedly. “We  _are_  down a whole set!”  
  
Helios pales. And double-checks the scorecard just to make sure that—oh. Yup. They are. “Uh,” he intones unhelpfully. “We’ll rally back?” The shrug of his shoulders inspires little confidence.   
  
Their whole team groans.  
  
Keeler steps forward and plants two hands on his hips, taking charge of the situation before they run out of seconds. They’re losing, incapable of getting past Kepler Academy’s blockers, and have just wasted all their timeouts. The situation couldn’t be more dire. Still, he won’t show it on his face. The last thing his team needs is to see him sweat. So Keeler sucks in a deep breath, tightens his fist, and exhales so quietly only Encke really hears, “I think we should let Cain and Abel try a super fast quick.”  
  
Everyone goes silent.   
  
Forty seconds remain.   
  
“Are you kidding me?!” Phobos shouts so loud he drowns out the opposing team’s chants. “They’ve never even done one outside of practice! What happens if Smarty-Shorts over here can’t toss the ball in time? Or if our precious Sadist can’t spike it right? What then? We’re just gonna let them throw the whole game?! No thanks. I’ll take my chances with Slappy-Go-Lucky over these two chuckleheads any day of the week.” He cocks his head towards Helios, who hasn’t scored a single point in the last ten rotations, not from lack of trying. Sleipnir’s Ace just isn’t their trump card this time around.  
  
Abel glares from three feet away. “We should try it,” he says with unbridled determination, words so heated it sets Cain’s spirit aflame. He’s trembling, nauseous, and nervously excited at the prospect of being front and center stage. All eyes on him as he attempts the impossible. But Abel knows he can do it. Knows he  _and Cain_  can do this.   
  
Cain smiles, flashing teeth, and claps Abel a little too hard on the back. Abel lurches forward, unsteady on his feet. “Fuck yeah we should!” Cain exclaims, startling Deimos awake from his two-minute power nap. He turns toward Abel and places one hand over his, gripping so tight Abel’s wrist starts to ache. “Just bring it to me and I’ll spike every fuckin’ one. You got that, princess? Just like practice. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”   
  
The cocky grin on Cain’s face and wild look in his eyes reminds Abel of their first game, how he’d felt intimidated and scared, yet strangely excited. That’s the kind of feeling Abel’s thrumming with now, like he and Cain could scale the side of a very high, high wall until the wide view at the top opened up before them, fresh air and blue skies, their hopes and dreams down below.   
  
It’s like flying, but better, because he’s never doing it alone.   
  
When Abel had first started setting with Cain, he’d been unresponsive and slow, tossing too high or too late for Cain’s difficult taste.  _You’re going wide! Stop aiming so low! Don’t tip it left! Just pass straight to the center, goddamnit! Jesus, sweetheart, you ever played this game before?!_  They’d mixed like oil and vinegar, polar opposite and stubborn, until one day he’d shaken up their estranged dichotomy by tossing the ball with the full weight of his palms, a hair too quick for Abel's textbook pace. Cain had slapped down with a loud  _crack_  and a grunt, hitting so hard it shook the gymnasium floors. The ball crash landed on the left side of the court, whizzing past Praxis' head so fast he'd barely had time to register the sound. And right then, when Cain had headlocked him under one sweaty arm and praised his play, did Abel realize that maybe they're not so incompatible after all.   
  
So here they are, down one whole set to Kepler Academy, borderline desperate, and willing to try anything that'll get them back in the game. Abel believes in himself. And Cain. There's no way in hell they're losing this match.   
  
Encke, the other half of this mess they call a volleyball team, nods in agreement, letting the idea sink in because he's just as crazy as Keeler is right now. "Coach!" he shouts over his shoulder. "Should we try it?"  
  
Hayden walks over, clipboard in hand. His tired face says it all. "Well we've tried all the formations we'd prepared beforehand, but we're not leaving any lasting impressions. At least, not any positive ones." He sighs and throws their useless game plan on the bench. The metal clatters to the floor. "A change in our lineup might be exactly what we need. Make the other team wonder what they're going up against. Ultimately, it's your decision.” Encke and Keeler nod, message heard loud and clear. “Keep following the plan or put your faith in these two—" Hayden’s hands fall onto Abel and Cain's shoulders, "and pray for a miracle?"  
  
Sleipnir's co-captains share a knowing look.  
  
Twenty seconds and counting.  
  
"Let's do it," they answer in unison, fists clenched and feet firm.   
  
Phobos groans in disgust while Cain and Abel pulse with excitement.   
  
Encke claps his hands together to signal the end of their huddle. The clock winds down. "Okay! Phobos, take your position in the back, Helios and Selene near the rear, I'll block the front." Encke steps towards Sleipnir University’s dysfunctional duo and stares heatedly between the two of them. Abel gulps. Cain smirks. "And you two, you're in. Turn this thing around, you got it?"  
  
Cain laughs so loud he's practically shaking all over. “‘Bout time you called my ass off the bench.” He snakes an arm around Abel’s shoulders, dragging him closer until they’re hip-to-hip. His hot breath tickles the back of Abel’s neck. “Don’t get your jockstrap in a wad, we’ll win this whole fuckin’ thing. Just watch.”  
  
Praxis limps over toward the bench, legs tired from back-to-back blocking. He hasn’t stopped jumping for the past thirty minutes. “You better. Or we’ll have you to thank for throwing the tournament.” He plops down and starts chugging one of the somewhat cold water bottles Ethos shyly offers.   
  
“Like you were doin’ just now?” Cain shoots back and licks the front of teeth, running the tip of his tongue beneath two sharp canines. Sleipnir’s best blocker and spiker don’t see eye to eye. There’s bad blood between them, a history Abel doesn’t know, but it’s under control. For now.  
  
Praxis doesn’t take the bait, just slumps forward on his elbows and sulks under a cool towel. They’ll probably get into it sometime after the match, but don’t try anything else while the referee whistles for the game to resume. This isn’t the first time they’ve come to near-blows on the court and it probably won’t be their last. But at least they’re sensible enough to not earn the team a red flag.   
  
The slick wood squeaks under his sneakers as Abel shuffles onto the court.   
  
“Number 9 and Number 10, replacing 14 and 3,” announces an official from up high in the stands.   
  
It’s Sleipnir’s turn to serve.   
  
And Abel’s more than ready.  
  
Selene steps toward the line, volleyball in his hands. He spins the soft leather between two dry palms and takes a deep breath, scoping out the best spot for a potential service ace. He’s been known to score a few under pressure. Selene tightens his ponytail and brushes the bangs from his eyes. Okay. He sees it. Right...there.   
  
He runs, throws the ball, and jumps two feet in the air. A loud  _smack_  and the ball’s flying over the net, staying on course, heading straight for the center. Kepler’s formation’s too spread out. They’ll never get there in—  
  
Number 25 makes the save, diving forward at the last second to bump the ball up high in the air.   
  
Selene frowns. “Shit.”  
  
Helios rushes past him into a defensive position. “Don’t mind!” he encourages, already poised for the rebound.   
  
“Chance ball!”  
  
Abel’s heart hammers against his chest. Okay. This is it. Once Phobos returns, he’ll probably pass it to him, and that’s when he’ll have to try their super fast quick. But where? Where?! Does he go left, near the net, maybe the center? No. Wait. By the front. Cain likes his toss high, a little fast, sharply angled and—   
  
“Abel!” Phobos yells, volleyball rebounding off of his forearms.   
  
It’s headed straight toward him. And he’s still not in position. Fuck!   
  
Abel scans the court. Cain’s waiting on the right, completely open and ready.   
  
He plants his footing too late and skids ungracefully against the wood. The ball lands on his fingertips and Abel pushes off too soon, tossing the Mikasa recklessly fast toward Cain, who hasn’t even started jumping. Cain panics, sees the ball coming straight for him, and shoves off of his haunches, leaping high into the air, arm winding back and—   
  
“Point!” the referee calls.   
  
Kepler’s scorecard flips.   
  
00-01  
  
Phobos rolls his eyes and groans into his palms. “Jesus Christ.”  
  
Helios stares dumbly while Selene sighs.   
  
The only thing Abel’s won is the opposing team’s point. And Cain’s apocalyptic rage as he stews over what’s just happened. Abel tossed a bit early. Early enough to launch the ball right into Cain’s unsuspecting face instead of his palm. The angry, red mark against his left cheek burns almost as hotly as Cain’s cartoonishly inflamed face. Steam might actually be rising from his ears. He turns, glacier-slow, and gives Abel a long, cold stare. Abel freezes and knows he’s as good as dead.   
  
"Cain! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to send the ball to your face!" Abel stammers all in one breath as Cain inches closer and closer, his terrifyingly dark aura swallowing Abel whole. "I got nervous and—"  
  
_Thwack!_  
  
"Jesus Christ, are trying to make him play concussed?!" Selene shouts in disbelief.   
  
Abel stumbles backwards in pain, his forehead as red as Cain's volleyball-sized mark. Cain's own is bright, too. It should be. Considering he just headbutted Abel for the entire stadium to see. Abel winces as he rubs the sore spot that'll definitely be bruised by tomorrow morning.  _Fuck_ , that hurts! Is Cain crazy?! Wait—he already knows the answer to that.   
  
The referee whistles for them to stop screwing around.  
  
"Are you done now?!" Cain barks, hands clenched into fists. He’s biting his lip bloody, trying to control his anger. It's not working so well, though, because Abel can clearly see flames on the side of Cain's head. "Why the fuck are you nervous?! You've got me, don't you?!"  
  
Abel gapes. "W-what?"  
  
Cain juts his thumb toward himself and scowls. "I'm the only one allowed to beat you! So stop thinking so much and just set the damn ball! Wherever you bring it, I'll be there! Every time!" He flicks Abel's tender forehead and Abel hisses with pain. But doesn’t stop staring. "You're relying on this and not trusting  _this_." Cain jabs his fist into Abel’s gut. There's a reason he's earned his nickname as Sleipnir's Sadist. Abel clutches his stomach and wants to shout right back, but then Cain says: "As long as I’m here, you can’t lose. So whatever’s confusing your head, tell it to shut the fuck up, because I’ll be the one to kick your ass!”   
  
Abel’s heart slows down, matching the steady  _thump_  of the volleyball’s bounce. He swallows thickly, mouth dry, and tries to speak, but can’t. The words get stuck halfway up his throat. It’s not like he really needs to say anything, though. Cain’s dark eyes reflect the same intensity of his own, a perfect, mirror image of their passion for this sport. Nausea fades to anticipation, anxiety to adrenaline, and Abel thinks he could take on all of Kepler Academy by himself. He wants to set the ball, he wants to jump, he wants to fight with his team, he wants to stay on this court for as long as he can until they’re dragging him away by the back of his shirt. He’ll claw his way to the top one toss at a time, until his fingertips bleed, until the rubber in his shoes wear out, until he’s beaten and bruised all over. He’ll keep playing until his body breaks down. For as long as Cain plays by his side.   
  
He looks over his shoulder, gazing at Sleipnir’s small cheering section in the stands. A lopsided banner with their team’s motto— _Race to Victory!_ —and the image of a grey stallion galloping through the stars. Two former players scream their guts out three rows back. Compared to Kepler’s, it’s pathetic. Their one hundred man choir could put any professional team’s fanclub to shame. But Abel doesn’t need giant megaphones or plastic clappers to remind him why he plays volleyball. The thrill of the court takes care of that.   
  
“Are you dumbasses finished?!”  
  
Abel and Cain break eye contact and snap their heads left.   
  
Encke glowers at both of them. “The whole stadium’s staring at you two idiots!”  
  
Abel looks around and, oh. Well then. He’s never seen so many eyes. Even the security guard’s staring.  
  
“I’m subbing you both out,” Encke sighs, rubbing his temples.   
  
Their hearts sink.   
  
Cain opens his mouth to prove just how creative he can get with profanities, but Abel cuts him off at the last second. “Keep us in!” he pleads, throwing one arm across Cain’s chest, holding him back. Cain could easily shove him off, but doesn’t. “Please! Give us one more chance. We’ll definitely score this time. Just let us play! If we mess up again, you can kick us off the damn team.”  
  
“He what?!” Cain crows, shooting Abel a dangerous look.   
  
And now it’s Abel’s turn to grip Cain’s wrist as he gambles with their lives. “Trust me, okay? Trust me the same way I trust you.”  
  
Cain grunts lowly, but then quirks his lips in a half-smirk. “Fine,” he grumbles, pretending to be annoyed.  
  
Encke sighs, conflicted. “If I were a smarter man I’d listen to my head.” He rubs the back of his shaved own for emphasis.   
  
“Are you gonna say somethin’ cheesy about your heart sayin’ yes because if you do I’ll probably puke all over your shoes,” Cain sneers. “This isn’t a fucking movie, ya know.”  
  
Encke frowns. “I could always kick you off right now.”  
  
That zips Cain’s smug mouth shut.   
  
“We won’t let you down!” Abel promises. “Again.”  
  
“Just try to get the ball over the net this time.” Their captain jogs back into position, regretting his decision with every step he takes.   
  
An opposing player walks close to the net, laughing. “How scary,” he whispers, nudging his teammate’s ribs. “Is this a volleyball tournament or a wrestling match? I guess the rumors are true. Sleipnir’s Sadist even picks fights with his teammates. No wonder he can’t coordinate with the setter. He just breaks them when they won’t bend to his will. Isn’t that blonde the third one he’s tried spiking with in the past six months?” Their opponent whistles lowly and shakes his head. “Wow, I feel bad for number 10.”  
  
Cain whiplashes right and starts charging for numbers 18 and 30. “Hey!” he barks, grabbing their attention. “You wanna go city boy?!” He’s less than five inches away from his target until Abel miraculously grips his arm in time, pulling Cain back towards the center with all of his strength. He tries not to take offense. Cain doesn’t know he’s from Manhattan.   
  
The Kepler players burst into cackles and walk away, leaving Cain fuming and Abel exhausted from playing tug-of-war with a toddler.   
  
“Come on, they’re not worth it!” Abel reasons. He obnoxiously jerks the left sleeve of Cain’s jersey until Cain’s turning to face him. “Fight them and you’ll get thrown out. So let’s kick their assses on the court!”  
  
Cain stops fidgeting and stares. “Stick to setting, princess, because your motivational speeches are shit.” He not-so-athletically butt taps Abel’s rear, and Abel flushes all over, partly from embarrassment and partly because he maybe, kind of enjoys Cain’s shameless advances. That’s something he’ll have to come to terms with later, though. After they win this match. “Get your sweet ass into position. Let’s even the score.”  
  
Encke serves next. They’ve only got two more rotations before Abel’s forced to play from the back. He rolls his shoulders, shoots Abel a stern look, and grips the volleyball between his hands. He's not the best server on the team, but Encke's always been consistent. Kepler's cheering section chants "defense!" while they slap their clappers together just as Encke tosses the ball up, leaps high, and propels the ball over the net, the Mikasa landing right between the middle blocker and outside hitter. Kepler's number 17, their libero, rebounds the hit, passing it to their setter, 19. He lines up the shot and passes left, the ball connecting with number 32's palm. 32 spikes right, the ball curving toward Helios in the back.  
  
"Got it!" Helios braces his forearms and lunges forward. "Captain!" The ball rebounds toward Encke effortlessly.   
  
Encke races into position and eyes Abel near the front, waiting expectantly for the pass. He takes a deep breath and pushes the ball forward, making its trajectory as smooth as possible. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand, Encke prays that this time their secret weapon will go off without a hitch. If they don't score right now, they'll never get out of this slump.  
  
Abel sees the ball coming toward him in slow-motion. Time creeps by. The hot blood flowing through his veins pumps faster and faster until it's the only sound he can hear pounding through his ears.   
  
"This is it," the right side hitter mutters to his setter from the other side of the net. "They're on their last leg."  
  
Then it's a very good thing, Abel thinks, Sleipnir's named after a horse that has eight.   
  
He visualizes the entire court in his head. Kepler's blockers will move left to cover Encke. So the best place for Cain to score is right...there! His fingers touch the ball and Abel tosses with blind faith, pass flying high in the air, and he knows, with every fiber of his being, that Cain will be there in time to spike.   
  
In the blink of an eye, Cain appears, already mid-flight by the time Abel notices him, the white 9 on his back reflecting the stadium lights above. He looks wild and terrifying with his feral grin and sharp teeth, and Abel stumbles on his feet, floored by how graceful Cain can be when he's completely in the zone. His palm slams down, slapping hard against the leather. The ball whizzes forward into the unmanned court below. Kepler's blockers rush to the right side, jumping at the last second to defend, but catch nothing but air. The volleyball hits the floor with a loud  _slap_.   
  
It takes the referee five seconds to register what's happened before he signals they’ve scored a point.   
  
The whole stadium goes silent.  
  
And then erupts into cheers.   
  
Kepler Academy stare dumbly from the other side of the net.  
  
“What the hell just happened?!”   
  
“Since when could Sleipnir do  _that_?!”  
  
“I didn’t even  _see_  him!”  
  
Abel giggles, excited, and in absolute disbelief that they actually pulled it off. He did it!  _They_  did it! A surge of adrenaline rushes through him and he stares down at his palms, flexing the tips of his fingers as the feeling courses through his whole body. He's fired up and invincible, tingling with exhilaration. He wants to keep playing, send toss after toss to his entire team, until they've all reached the top and can stare down at the view below. Together.   
  
Cain blindsides him into a hug, pulling Abel close, close enough to get a good whiff of Cain’s clean deodorant and stale sweat. He’s trembling all over, just as bad as Abel is, and giddy. Cain buries his face into the crook of Abel’s neck and locks his arms around Abel’s shoulders, laughing loudly into his skin, like he’s trying to keep this happiness a secret from everyone and their mothers who came here to see them play. Abel hesitates. Should he…? His hands tentatively clutch Cain’s waist and when Cain doesn’t immediately buck him off, Abel smiles and thinks he could most definitely get used to this.   
  
“Told you I’d be there,” Cain breathes against the shell of Abel’s ear. He pulls back and smiles so warmly it flutters Abel’s stomach with a flurry of anxious butterflies, paper-thin wings clinging to his ribs until they’ve formed a fragile cage around his heart.  
  
“Yeah.” He laughs shyly. “You did.” Abel grins, squeezes Cain a bit harder, and says, “told you I’d bring it.”  
  
Cain musses the back of Abel’s blonde hair and pushes his head down, forcing him into a headlock. Abel squirms in protest, but doesn’t exactly put up a huge struggle. “Yeah you fucking did!” Cain cackles.  
  
A third warm body worms its way into their hug. Helios wraps his arms around both of them and joins the laughter. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he yells excitedly, pounding Abel and Cain’s backs. “That was so cool the way you guys went  _wham_  and  _bam_!”  
  
Selene pretzels his way in, too, smiling. A few strands of hair fall out of his ponytail, covering his face. “Did you see the looks on their faces?! They don’t even know what hit them!”  
  
Phobos scoots closer, but not too close. He’d sooner swallow a pinecone than be apart of something so humiliating. There’s a fair bit of distance between him and his teammates’ celebratory orgy, but he’s not exactly out of their orbit, either. “I always knew you two were freaks,” he snorts, arms folded tightly across his chest.   
  
Helios grabs Phobos by the arm and drags him in anyway, kicking and screaming.   
  
Encke places two large hands on Cain and Abel’s shoulders. They stop laughing and look up, unsure of what their captain will say. “That was exactly what we needed.” He juts his head left toward the bench. Abel looks over and sees his entire team cheering from the sidelines, on their feet and fired up. Keeler gives Abel a quick thumb’s up and smiles. Hayden nods in approval. “Now do it again,” Encke says, bringing his attention toward the game, “about twenty-four more times.”  
  
Cain and Abel stare at each other with fire in their eyes and nod, determined to win this whole thing.   
  
The ref blows his whistle.   
  
01-01  
  
Kepler’s serve.  
  
Number 32 steps up to the line and bounces the ball a few times before readying his toss. Kepler’s cheering section chants his name in the megaphone. He throws, leaps, and smacks the ball as hard and as fast as he can, clearing the net, Mikasa heading straight for the back.   
  
Phobos dives to the left for a last-minute save, sliding along the court as he receives with the back of his hand. It's a testament to his skill as a libero he even managed to save it, but still... He grunts in annoyance when the ball starts to veer out of bounds, sailing far away from the front. There’s no time to—   
  
Abel’s already mid-jump when Phobos looks back up, taking control of the ball with his right, outstretched hand, setting it backwards and behind him with just the tips of his fingers as he continues on a crash course for the barrier. Cain rushes by in a blur and leaps, spiking the ball down with inhuman precision. It lands right between Kepler’s front blockers, who haven’t even jumped.   
  
Another whistle blow.   
  
The scorecard flips.  
  
02-01  
  
And the crowd goes wild.   
  
Cain lands on his feet just as Abel slams into the blue divider, rolling a few feet away, body buried beneath the wreckage. The referee whistles for play to stop. A paramedic rushes to the sidelines.   
  
Abel groans and lifts himself up with shaky arms. His back hurts and his head throbs. But not enough to stop. An arm winds around his waist to help stand him on his feet. Abel looks over his shoulder and sees Cain beside him, a mixture of worry and excitement written on his face. “You’re bleeding,” he comments and Abel blinks in confusion. He touches his mouth and—oh. Warm, fresh blood drips from his nostrils and settles inside the dry cracks of his lips. He licks them, and tastes iron.   
  
“You need to sit down?” Cain asks, huffing. He must’ve ran over milliseconds after spiking.   
  
Abel wipes the mess away with the back of his hand. A trail of blood smears across his pale skin. “No,” he answers and Cain quirks a brow. “We’re just getting started.”  
  
Cain smirks and then laughs. His arm wrapped around Abel’s waist tightens and now Abel’s aching for an entirely different reason. “Damn straight!”  
  
When the medic is done cleaning and bandaging his minor wounds, Abel jogs back over to his team, ready to go. They’re on a roll. There’s no way he can stop now. He rests two red palms on his kneepads and drops his head, a bead of sweat sliding from his neck all the way down to the base of his skull. He takes a deep breath, air filling his tired lungs, and exhales the tension coiling in his muscles.   
  
Two down. Twenty-three to go.  
  
The match continues in Sleipnir’s favor. Cain and Abel create a sizable dent in Kepler’s defenses, blasting their way through the formidable White Tower blockers to land point after point after point until they’re in the lead, 12-7. Abel tosses to Cain without hesitation, trusting that he’ll always be there to receive the pass. And Cain is, perfectly in synch with Abel’s movements, finding the ball wherever Abel sets it like he  _knows_  just how high or how fast or how wide the shot will be to reach its maximum potential. Cain spikes down for all he’s worth until his palm starts to ache. But the pain doesn’t matter. Only winning does.  
  
Kepler’s coach can’t figure out how to respond to Sleipnir’s super fast quick or how to shut it down. The blockers jump too late or not at all, unable to read where or  _when_  the damn attack is going to occur. So he decides to sub out some of their current setters and blockers for a different lineup, four players Abel’s never seen come off the bench...till now.   
  
“That one’s trouble,” Encke mentions after another successful spike. “Number 43. Athos. He’s the team’s captain. Won best all-around setter in the state in high-school."  
  
Selene pants, exhausted. Hayden will probably switch him and Helios out soon. “Ah, the Spoiled Prince has finally arrived!”  
  
Phobos cocks his head to the side and readjusts the headband holding his hair back. “He makes Cain look saintly by comparison.”  
  
“I heard that!” Cain barks from the other side of the court through a mouthful of hair clips. His damn bangs keep getting in the way.  
  
Abel watches Athos casually chat amongst his team, smiling and laughing like he’s having a good time. Everyone else seems uninterested in what he has to say, but don’t leave until he’s finished speaking. Athos wags his finger playfully and winks, half-threatening, half-encouraging his team to do better or they’ll be suffering the consequences for it later. There’s an air of danger about him that Abel doesn’t like.   
  
“What makes him such a threat?” he asks, studying his opponent. Athos catches Abel staring from across the court and waves. Abel freezes in place.  
  
“He’s got a wicked serve,” Helios says. “Service aces, jump floats, topspin, you name it. That guy can make the ball do just about anything he wants.”  
  
“And those other three guys who just stepped onto the court?” Abel points toward the group of gigantic men replacing Kepler’s front blockers. They’re tall.  _Huge_. Abel gulps.  
  
“Ah, yes. If Athos is Kepler’s Prince, then those three are his knights who protect him as he rules with an iron fist from up high in his tower,” Selene informs, like he’s reciting the answer from a textbook. Obviously he’s been thinking about this for a while. Selene’s not the best on their team, pretty average to be honest, but he’s smart and can analyze any player without having ever seen them actually play. “Porthos. Argon. Xenon. Some of the best blockers in our division, all on one team. If their coach is sending those four out now, it means they’re a little desperate.”  
  
Cain makes a face and  _pfft_ ’s in response. “They don’t look that tough to me. Three lampposts and a douchebag. We can take ‘em.”   
  
“Were you describing yourself with that last adjective?” Phobos sniggers.   
  
“Shut up! At least I don’t look like a puddle of piss!”  
  
Phobos guffaws. It’s not his fault his uniform’s the opposite of everyone else’s. Sleipnir’s colors are royal blue and yellow, and the libero always wears the reverse. The bright yellow sort of does look a bit...urine-like.   
  
"Doesn't matter who or what they are!" Cain boasts. "I'll fucking break through their stupid defense and spike the ball past their big, dumb heads!"  
  
"Inspirational," Phobos drones.  
  
Encke claps his hands, commanding attention. "Come on, get into position. The ref's ready to restart the game."  
  
This is the last time Abel can play from the front before he's forced to serve next, unable to attack or pull off a quick up close, so he really wants to make every second he wastes over-analyzing the situation count. He's not as smart as Selene, but Abel's pretty spot-on with his instincts at times. And right now his gut's telling him that this next point won't be easy.  
  
Kepler's Prince steps up to the line with a chorus of girls chanting his name repeatedly from the stands. Athos looks over his shoulder, blows them a kiss, and laughs when they scream. Cain gags next to Abel. The ref whistles for him to hurry it up and Athos shrugs apologetically.   
  
"What a showoff," Selene grumbles from the back row.  
  
Athos tosses the ball, winds back, but doesn't jump. Instead he simply pushes the ball forward with the heel of his palm, gently propelling the Mikasa over the net with zero spin at all.   
  
"Float serve!" Abel shouts.  
  
The ball wavers uncertainly, going left, then right, and Abel's not sure where he should dive to save it. He manages to read its movement at the last second and lunges forward, barely saving the ball in time with his right, closed fist. The ball pops up, going behind him, and Abel panics. Now he can't set.  _Shit_.  
  
It's a good thing then that Selene's a jack-of-all trades because he's already on top of Abel's desperate save, moving into a setting position.  
  
"Selene bring it here!" Helios shouts, leaping from behind the ten foot line.  
  
Selene tosses high and aims the ball straight for Helios' waiting palm. He slaps down with all his might and tries to brute-force his way through Kepler's blockers, putting everything he’s got into that one hit. Porthos steps into position on the other side and immediately jumps, blocking Helios’ shot with ease. His long arms cover almost one third of the entire court.   
  
“Shit!” Encke mutters and dives, the ball landing against his hand, rebounding up.   
  
“Toss it, princess!” Cain screams, racing to the other side, free of Kepler’s knights.   
  
Abel rushes left and connects with the ball, passing quickly to Cain who’s already midflight by the time the ball reaches him. Cain spikes down in the blink of an eye, Mikasa slapping against the wooden court before Xenon can get there. The point’s good.   
  
13-07  
  
Sleipnir’s panting and in shambles. They’ve won the point, but it doesn’t feel like all the others they’ve racked up. It’s sour and stale, leaving a bad taste in Abel’s mouth when he replays the last rotation in his head. Athos  _let_  them score. He’s making them work for it now, harder than they have been for the past twenty minutes. Kepler's Prince is toying with them. Abel wipes his wet mouth with the back of one hand, mindful of the bandages, and exhales sharply. They’re going to have to go all out to dethrone this douchebag.   
  
The game continues.  
  
And takes a turn for the worse.   
  
They lose the next point, winning streak broken all because of Athos. He’s beginning to read and decipher just exactly how Cain and Abel’s quick works, watching their facial ticks for clues, predicting Abel's placement, and gauging Cain's speed. He then directs the blockers to stand precisely where Cain spikes the ball, yellow and blue Mikasa ricocheting off their forearms to land on Sleipnir’s side of the court, falling too fast for anyone to recover. Cain hasn’t scored a single point for the last fives rounds and the frustration of being completely shut out is showing on his face. He’s losing focus, fast.   
  
The score reads 13-12. They’re barely holding on.   
  
A loud whistle pierces through the cheers.   
  
Abel looks left and sees Keeler standing just behind the sidelines, Abel’s number card in his hand. He’s calling for a switch. Abel swallows thickly and panics. He doesn’t want to leave. Not now. He  _can’t_. Praxis and Ethos are doing the same, calling for Cain and Encke’s removal respectively. They’ve been playing for so long Abel doesn’t realize how tired he is until he starts shuffling his feet forward, forcibly dragging himself to the bench even though every cell in his body is screaming for him to stay, fight, keep playing until you collapse!   
  
When Abel makes it off the court, Keeler pats his shoulder affectionately. “You did really well!” his captain encourages, smiling. “You’ve been playing for a while though, you should sit down and get some rest.”   
  
Abel nods slowly, not exactly enthused. “Okay.”  
  
“Abel.”  
  
He looks up, blinking slowly.   
  
Keeler drops his smile and puts one hand on Abel’s arm, grip loose, but firm. “This doesn’t mean that you’ve failed. Quite the opposite, actually.” He chuckles nervously, hiding something behind the sound. “The way you’ve been playing made me think ‘oh, wow, I wish I were on the court, too!’ at times. I’m a little jealous, to be honest. The way you toss the ball so precisely to Cain, to Helios, to Encke.” Keeler bites his lip and his brows furrow. He’s a great setter in his own right, but there’s just something lacking in his play that sets Abel apart from him in every possible way. Maybe his heart’s just not in it anymore. Keeler almost chokes out a laugh at the irony. “But then I realized how dumb that was! We’re in this together, right? Every point that you or I score is for Sleipnir. It doesn’t matter who or how or why, just _when_. Understand?”  
  
The sinking feeling in his gut slowly dissipates and Abel breathes a bit easier. He’d been so busy focusing on protecting their side of the court that he’d completely forgotten the simple, obvious fact that it was never his burden to shoulder alone. He and Keeler are a team, two halves of one brain that control the entire flow of Sleipnir’s play. “Yeah. I do.” Abel places his hand over Keeler’s and squeezes reassuringly. “Good luck, Captain. Score a lot, okay?”  
  
“You know I will!” Keeler flicks his braid over his shoulder and smirks. He’ll never go pro or play in the Olympics, all because of one weak aorta and a lifetime of anemia. It’s by divine luck he’s made it this far into his career. Volleyball is an end, not a beginning for him. So he’ll keep smiling and cheering with everything that he’s got. Maybe one day what he shows on the outside might actually change how he really feels within. “Have a little faith in the rest of your team and make sure to keep your eyes peeled! Who knows? Maybe you’ll even learn a thing or two!”  
  
Abel plops down onto the bench and towels off his sweaty body. Cain joins him a few seconds later, falling so hard he rattles the metal supports. He snatches the water from Abel’s hand and squirts a generous amount inside his mouth, then shoves the bottle back toward Abel with a scowl and a burp.   
  
"You okay?" Abel tentatively asks. He place one hand on Cain's long, right kneepad.  
  
Cain grunts in annoyance, but doesn't push Abel away. "Course I'm not!" he snaps. "Coach took me out! We should be out there! Not Sasquatch and Ghost Boy!" AKA Praxis and Ethos. The fact that Hayden replaced Cain specifically with Praxis boils his blood well past the point of mild irritation. And Ethos...well, sometimes people forget he's even there and then the next thing you know, Ethos is standing three inches behind you, answering the question you just asked before disappearing, again, to God knows where. They're Sleipnir's other bizarre duo. Sleipnir is filled with nothing but bizarre duos.  
  
"I know how you feel," Abel replies. Cain stops heatedly huffing through his nose and stares. "When I saw Keeler holding my card I almost lost it. I didn't want to get subbed out. I thought I'd messed up or something. Like I wasn't good enough." Abel plants his hands on the metal bench below and leans back, watching Keeler discuss the game plan to rest of the players on the court. "But then I remembered that we're a team. And every member should share that feeling, at least once. The weight of the ball in your hands, making it fly over the net, or digging at the last second, protecting everyone so you can keep fighting. Keep playing. Keep standing on the court for as long as you can, until the end." He sighs and then smiles when Keeler pats Praxis on the head, barely reaching on his tip-toes. "They want to climb to the top just as badly as we do."  
  
Cain doesn't say anything. He just frowns and towels off his damp hair, until that frown settles into a soft, barely-there smile because Cain knows exactly what Abel means even if he won't say it out loud. The thrill of the court, being the one to score point after point after point for your team, that adrenaline rush as you soar through the air and connect with the ball to spike down, hard, and watch the whole ground shake below. Cain's addicted to it. To volleyball. To spiking Abel's tosses. But no one (except Abel) has to know.  
  
"They better not fuck up!" Cain snorts. "Or we're gonna have to save the day." He looks at Abel, slaps his back, and grins. "Again"  
  
Abel jumps. He'll never get used to Cain’s overzealous sportsmanship.  
  
Keeler folds his arms and stares thoughtfully across the court, eyeing Athos as he discusses something—probably a new strategy considering they’ve just changed players—with the rest of his team. Keeler’s been watching him for a while now, studying how Athos tosses and serves, and, well, he may have a few things up his sleeve.   
  
“You think that’ll work?” Selene deadpans, a little wary of Keeler’s crazy, half-assed plan. There’s desperate and then there’s completely batshit insane. Keeler’s tipped the scale and fallen right into lunacy.   
  
Keeler shrugs. “We won’t know until we try, right?” He then turns to look at Ethos, the boy practically shaking like a leaf inside his jersey. This is his first big game and he’s nervous beyond belief. Ethos isn’t a first string, second string player, or even third string player. He’s the guy who fills their water bottles, fluffs their towels, and packs extra Salonpas in the duffel bags when everyone else forgets to. That’s his role. And he’s quite content keeping the status quo. But if Keeler wants him to play, then, well, he guesses he could try. “You think you can pull it off, Ethos?”   
  
Ethos clears his throat, tries not to mentally measure just how tall Xenon, Argon, or Porthos are, and nods. His hands shake uncontrollably at his sides. “U-uh,” he mumbles, voice thinning. “S-sure?” Oh God, he might throw up.  
  
“Hey.”   
  
A heavy hand falls on his shoulder and Ethos stops trembling for about five seconds, just long enough to register that it’s Praxis who’s chasing all the negative  _what if_ ’s and  _maybe_ ’s away, calming his nerves, while simultaneously racing his heart. It thumps erratically against Ethos’ ribs. “You’ll do fine,” Praxis encourages in his usual, steady baritone. Six whole months later and Ethos still can’t shake his schoolboy hero worship. “Just relax and wait for Keeler’s signal. I’ll make sure to get them off your back.”  
  
Ethos lets out a deep sigh and smiles. “Okay,” he replies, believing that everything will be.  
  
It’s Sleipnir’s serve.   
  
Helios steps up to the line and takes a good look. “I hope this works,” he mutters to himself just before he tosses the ball high and jumps.   
  
The volleyball glides over to the other side of the court. Argon receives the serve with both of his long arms, ball rebounding toward Athos smoothly. Kepler’s Prince follows its course and then jumps, setting right for Porthos.   
  
“Shit, he’s pretty fast too!” Selene gasps. Porthos is already jumping by the time Selene catches up, his long legs and arms helping him control the entire width of the court. Selene leaps as high as he can, but realizes when the apex of his jump falls three centimeters short of normal, that he’s too exhausted to keep playing.   
  
The ball collides against his palm, brushing the tips of his fingers, spinning wildly out of control.   
  
“Don’t mind, don’t mind!” Keeler encourages as he races for the save.  
  
Now’s as good a time as any.   
  
Keeler tries to mellow the ball’s spin so that it’s nothing but smooth sailing for Ethos from here on out. He finds Praxis’ waiting eyes and smirks, then pushes off with two hands, setting their plan in motion. Predictably, Kepler move toward Praxis, thinking he’ll be the one to receive Keeler’s toss. Praxis waits, lets the momentum build, and then jumps, his palm winding back for a spike.   
  
He swings.  
  
And hits nothing.  
  
The referee blows his whistle.  
  
Another point for Sleipnir.   
  
14-12  
  
“Where did the ball go?!” Porthos shouts in disbelief, about ready to rip his hair out if he doesn’t get an answer. Soon.   
  
“Over your big dumb head, you moron!” Athos replies, annoyed. He’s fuming and embarrassed that Sleipnir had managed something so humiliatingly devious right under his nose.   
  
Keeler rushes toward Ethos, laughing loudly with a bright smile on his face. “Great job!” he says, hands poised for a high-five. Ethos gapes, still in disbelief that he just received Keeler’s toss (one-handed no less) and dumped the ball right onto the other side of the court, Kepler’s blockers not even aware of his existence all thanks to Praxis. Ethos puts his hands out and jolts when Keeler slaps two palms forward into his.   
  
Their team cheers wildly from the bench. Cain howls while Abel claps.   
  
Praxis casually slides one sweaty arm around Ethos’ shoulders and smiles. “See? Nothing to worry about.” Ethos tries not to melt.   
  
“That…” huff “was…” wheeze “awesome!” Helios hacks.   
  
Selene can only offer a shaky thumb’s up, too busy panting for anything more complicated. He doubles over and coughs.   
  
Keeler frowns. “You two need to sit out for a while.”  
  
Helios scoffs. “Us? Nah, we’re great!”   
  
Selene groans on cue.  
  
“Okay, so, maybe good, not great,” Helios amends.   
  
Keeler sighs. His heartfelt pat on their backs translates loosely to  _go sit the fuck down and don’t argue with me again_. The whistle blows. Hayden’s requesting another switch. Helios and Selene pad back to the bench, Vicks and Patel taking their places, two relief freshman who’d just joined this past year.   
  
“Are you okay to keep going?” Keeler asks, meeting Phobos in the back. Their libero hasn’t taken a break for the past forty minutes.   
  
Phobos wipes the sweat dripping down his face with the left sleeve of his yellow jersey and frowns, almost repulsed that Keeler would even bother to ask such a dumb question in the first place. “Of course I am,” he shoots back, disgusted. “Who else is going to cover your asses when you fuck up a receive?” Phobos places two hands on his hips and cocks his head arrogantly.   
  
The smug expression on his face twists to horror when Keeler leaps forward and fluffs his stringy, thin hair.   
  
Two points in the lead, Sleipnir’s ready to receive.   
  
Athos spins the ball between his palms, deliberating between which of his three serves he could potentially use. Keeler braces himself for whichever might come their way. At a time like this, Athos won’t be looking to take risks. He’ll try and use what’s always worked. So it’s no surprise to Keeler when Athos takes a step back, tosses the ball high in the air, and leaps forward, going for a jump serve, his bread and butter. Kepler’s cheering section chants a drawn-out  _olé_ , first syllable elongated and rising in volume until Athos slaps down, then pronouncing the accented  _e_.  
  
The ball spins and then curves, veering off course, heading straight for Ethos.   
  
Ethos panics and moves to receive, but nearly trips over his own two feet trying to get there in time. The ball smacks against his arms and then bounces right, heading out of bounds.   
  
A perfect service ace.   
  
The whistle blows.   
  
14-13.   
  
Ethos shrinks until he’s microscopic. “Sorry,” he mumbles, still feeling the sting in his arms.   
  
Keeler squeezes Ethos’ shoulder reassuringly. He’s no stranger to failure. “Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s fine. Just don’t give up!” He balls his fist and and gives him a small fighting pose.   
  
Ethos mirrors his captain’s kind gesture and puts on a brave face. “Okay!”  
  
Athos continues to be a problem, scoring point after point whenever he steps up to the line. He can’t rely on his blockers to keep the spikes at bay and instead starts relying on himself to get the job done, ruthlessly serving toward Ethos or Patel because he knows those two are Sleipnir’s weakest receivers by far. The ball either whizzes right past their heads or ricochets off their forearms to score another easy point for Kepler. And the damage it does to their morale speaks volumes. Praxis loses his cool and lets Argon lead him into thinking he’ll spike when in actuality he’s assisting, and Praxis takes the bait, jumping for it like an idiot while the ball slams down just out of his reach. The only reason he hasn’t blown a gasket is because of Keeler’s infectious optimism. If there’s one thing their soft-spoken captain’s good at it’s lifting everyone’s spirits, no matter how bad the situation might seem. He keeps everyone together (even Phobos who’s only now beginning to crack under the pressure) and coordinates a few more surprise dumps, holding onto their barely-there lead until Athos replies with another lightning-fast service ace.   
  
By the time Ethos has possession of the ball again, the score’s tied, an even 18 across the board. Kepler's caught up. And this point will determine who gains control and the lead. Ethos is pretty decent at getting it over the net, but he’s predictable, and right now that’s the last thing Sleipnir needs.   
  
Hayden unfolds his arms and cups two hands around his mouth, shouting: “Deimos!” A quick change of pace might help.   
  
Deimos perks up at the mention of his name and hurriedly rushes toward Hayden, ready to play. He’s been sitting out this whole time, watching with interest, and now he finally has a chance to shine.   
  
“Go pinch serve for Ethos,” Hayden orders. “Shake things up.”  
  
Deimos nods eagerly and quickly steps onto the court. A pinch server only gets one shot to impress and Deimos can’t afford to fuck this up. He trembles nervously with anticipation as he mentally checklists his options. Abel cheers him on from the bench while Cain glares, silently telling Deimos he better do his damn best or else.   
  
Ethos meets him halfway as they switch. “Good luck, Deimos!” he says, eyes wide and smile bright.   
  
Deimos nods, not saying a word. Talking seems irrelevant when you can just as easily show people what you mean.   
  
The ref hands Deimos the ball and he stares down at the hard leather between his hands. Blue and yellow and oh so light. He spins it a few times, getting a good feel for its weight, and then decides on trying  _that_. Desperate times as the saying goes. Deimos bounces the ball three times, looks at his tired teammates, and then tosses, ball climbing higher and higher until the heel of his palm smacks the Mikasa right at its peak, ball gliding through the air without any spin—a float serve. It sails through the air, wavering a bit early and oh. Oh no. Deimos panics just as the ball starts to dip a bit too soon.   
  
The whistle blows and everyone stares blankly at the dead ball on Sleipnir’s side of the court.   
  
Fault.   
  
Deimos sighs, defeated, and tries not to feel disappointed because he knows everyone else already is.   
  
_Don’t mind_ ’s and  _don’t worry_ ’s echo across the court, but he  _does_  and can’t stop because he’s gone and fucked everything up. He’s got one slightly unimportant job on this whole damn team and he can’t even do that correctly. Maybe his father was right. Maybe volleyball really is a waste of time. The scorecard doesn’t change, though, for some odd reason. It’s only when Deimos lifts his head back up does he realize that he gets to try again due to one of Kepler’s players moving slightly out of bounds during the last serve.   
  
“Just do your best!” Keeler encourages, giving him a thumb’s up. Praxis nods in agreement while Phobos casually waves his hand, telling Deimos to hurry it up and get a move on.   
  
None of which inspires confidence.   
  
Suddenly, cutting through the stadium chatter and courtside banter, he hears Cain’s voice, loud and clear and booming like a fog horn. “DON’T FUCK UP AGAIN OR I’M GONNA GO OVER THERE AND KICK YOUR ASS!” he shouts with one hand cupping his mouth and the other balled into a fist, foot planted on the bench so he can scream above the crowd.   
  
And Deimos smiles because that’s the closest Cain’s come to ever admitting that he cares.   
  
The referee signals for Deimos to serve and this time when he tosses, Deimos hits the ball with confidence, a rush of adrenaline propelling the ball forward, gliding smoothly across the court. The Mikasa floats at just the right speed and angle, only dipping after it’s cleared the net. It suddenly drops, losing momentum, and lands between Xenon and Porthos, who both dive to receive. They end up colliding into each other and miss the ball entirely, Mikasa bouncing mockingly in front of them.   
  
Another whistle blow.  
  
And this time the scorecard flips.  
  
19-18  
  
Sleipnir leads.  
  
The stadium roars in excitement as Deimos’ teammates congratulate his perfect service ace.   
  
He shuffles back to the bench with determination and pride. And Deimos smiles. Because he suddenly remembers why he plays volleyball in the first place.   
  
“Cain,” Hayden calls just as Deimos sits back down. “You’re in. You too, Encke.”  
  
Cain jumps to his feet and throws the towel around his shoulders to the ground. “Finally!" He’s been about as patient as kid waiting till midnight to rip open their birthday presents. “Come on, Abel, let’s go!”   
  
“Abel’s not going out yet,” their coach explains.   
  
Cain stops tugging on Abel’s arm and frowns. “Why the fuck not?” he gripes. “Just who the hell’s supposed to toss to me?!”  
  
Encke rolls his eyes as he pulls his kneepads back on. “Keeler, obviously. Quit bitching and get a move on. We’ll need that stupidly fast quick of yours to seal the deal and if Abel’s tired by match point we’re screwed.” Encke grabs Cain’s arm and drags him toward the court.   
  
Abel sighs, a little disappointed, but completely understands the situation. Cain’s got more stamina than he does which means he can last longer on the court without feeling fatigued. Still, Abel wishes he were right there with him to send every toss his way. Now it’s his turn to envy Keeler from his seat on the bench. Ethos and Patel join him a few seconds later to cheer from the peanut gallery as the game resumes.  
  
“As you can clearly see,” Keeler starts inside their group huddle, “I’m not Abel.” He directs that little comment toward Cain who’s still grumbling and pouty. “Which means I’m not the same intuitive genius that he is. So we’ll be using my hand signs. You guys remember what those are right?”  
  
Cain snorts. “You mean like this?” He flips the bird. Encke smacks the back of his head.  
  
Keeler sighs. “For those that do remember, you’ll be rewarded. For those that don’t, you’ll be running laps when we get back.”   
  
That deceptive smile of his chills Cain down to the bone. “Hey, wait a minute! That’s not fair!”  
  
“You’ve had six whole months to look at my cheat sheet,” he singsongs with a wag of his finger.  
  
The whistle blows and Cain hopes he’s remembered at least one attack pattern or else Keeler’ll make him run in circles till he pukes.   
  
One of Kepler’s players is serving.   
  
Keeler flashes two fingers pointed horizontally behind his back. Cain racks his brain trying to remember what the fuck that even means. Pipe, hut/go, front slide? He’s drawing a blank here. What the fuck is Keeler going to do?!  
  
The ball goes into play and Phobos receives, passing to Keeler. And Cain hesitates because he doesn’t know what to fucking do. So he goes with his gut and chooses to attack. Keeler sets the ball left, toward Praxis, but Cain’s already rushing to intercept. He leaps, slaps the ball, and then curses when Kepler’s front row blocks his spike. The ball bounces back and drops down to the court below.   
  
19-19  
  
Yet another tie.  
  
“What the hell was that?!” Praxis growls, storming over toward Cain with uncontrollable rage, anger visibly whirling behind him. He grips the front of Cain’s blue jersey and scowls, using his superior height to his advantage. Cain’s feet slightly lift off the ground. “That was my toss! You can’t just do whatever the hell you feel like! This isn’t a game, Cain!”  
  
Cain smirks as he tries to loosen Praxis' grip. But he can't. “Oh yeah? Then what the hell are we playin’ here?”  
  
Praxis bites his tongue, holding back every swear in both English and Russian that he knows, and forcibly shoves Cain into the net. He's still simmering, ready to boil over, but doesn't take Cain's all too tempting bait. Instead, Praxis gets back into position, takes a deep, calming breath and says, "you can't win this thing alone, Cain. That's not how it works. So stop throwing the goddamn tournament and just play  _with_  us for fuck's sake! Just this once! Then you can go back to being a self-centered douchebag for all I care."  
  
Cain balls his hands into fists and clenches his teeth so hard that his jaw starts to ache. He wants to drag Praxis down to his level and knock out every one of his pearly white teeth, break his big fucking nose, and blind him in one eye. Who the fuck does Praxis think he is?! He doesn't know shit, not a goddamn thing! He's never been abandoned on the court, never had to watch his whole team turn on him one play at a time, never soared through the air to spike, only to feel nothing but air against your waiting palm because no one fucking trusts you anymore! He's never felt the embarrassment of being the only player left standing because you've never learned to let go and just give up control. _"You're asking too much!" "We can't keep up with you!" "If you're gonna act like you're the only player on this team then maybe you should be!"_  
  
Praxis can take his self-ingratiating, motivational jerk-off and shove it right up his—   
  
"LET'S GO CAIN! GOOD SERVE!"   
  
Cain jerks his head left. Abel's on his feet, cheering so loud he's practically trembling from the force of it. He's got a big, disgusting smile plastered all over his face, like he actually gives a shit whether Cain makes this next point or not. Like Abel actually cares about  _him_  and not what he can do. Cain clicks his tongue and frowns because he fucking hates just how much he actually likes this feeling, knowing someone's got his back when everyone else has turned theirs. He squeezes the ball between his hands and growls. "Ah, fuck it!"   
  
Encke slaps Cain on the shoulder. "You ready to serve or what?" he barks. Encke's a hard ass, but he cares about every member of his team. Including Cain. As difficult as that may be at times.  
  
Cain nods and thinks about hitting one of Abel's perfect tosses. And then he laughs, obnoxiously loud.  _Shit_. He's in too deep. "Relax, Encke," he starts, that familiar, wild grin settling on his face again, the one that always appears whenever he's actually enjoying this dumb game. "We've got this next point in the bag."  
  
Encke quirks a brow. "You feelin' all right?"   
  
He looks over his shoulder and stares at their shitty fucking banner, the gross color scheme, the stupidly drawn horse, and then at the people holding it up. Morons. Cain sighs and then flashes teeth. "I just want us to win,” he says and this time he actually means it.   
  
Cain bounces the ball, looks at his silent, encouraging teammates, then at Abel still cheering from the bench, and tosses. All of them. Fucking morons.   
  
He slaps the ball over the net.  
  
Number 8 receives and passes to Athos who then sets up for what looks like a pipe.   
  
“Pipe!” Keeler warns.  
  
Praxis and Encke wait to jump and let Argon spike from behind the ten-foot line. The ball comes crashing down, whizzing by fast, but at least they’re prepared for it. Praxis lunges left to rebound and the ball pops up, just out of Keeler’s reach. He can’t set if it’s flying backwards.   
  
Cain sees the stupid Mikasa, bright blue and yellow spinning right toward him. He races into position, bends his knees, and then passes at the last minute, to Keeler. “Keeler!”  
  
Keeler finds the ball and tosses straight to Praxis, pushing hard and fast, almost as fast as one of Abel’s quicks. Praxis leaps high, slaps the ball down, but meets Porthos mid-air. His big hand struggles to shove the ball out of Praxis’ grip.  
  
“Just get it in there, you shithead!” Cain shouts.   
  
Praxis grunts and surges forward, ball sliding out of Porthos’ palm, and falling straight toward the court below. Xenon dives, but misses, and the ball connects with the hardwood.  
  
The whistle blows.  
  
Another point for Sleipnir.   
  
20-19  
  
Their whole team erupts with excitement, on and off the court. Selene grips Helios’ bare arm and shouts while he simultaneously makes sure Helios stays clothed, who’s about three seconds away from ripping his shirt off and twirling it over his head. Hayden nods approvingly while the rest of their benched players fist pump or scream. Cain catches Abel’s warm eyes on the other side and his stupid, idiotic smirk twists Cain’s stomach into knots, worse than a tangled volleyball net. Abel hugs his arms against his chest and stands tall, proud, and deliriously happy. And Cain smiles right back because he’s the biggest moron of them all.   
  
Keeler pats the top of his head out of nowhere and Cain bristles like a cat who’s just been dunked in water. “Great job!” Keeler praises, stroking Cain’s hair. “I’m glad you remembered at least one of my signals!”  
  
Cain stiffens. “What?”  
  
“The signal! This one!” Keeler shows Cain three fingers pointed downward. “For a right side strike.”  
  
He never saw the fucking signal?! “Uh,” Cain drones. Did he pass out of instinct?! “Yeah. Sure.”  
  
“Keep it up and you’ll only be running for thirty minutes and not fifty!”  
  
Cain groans. He forgot about the fucking laps. “Fine fine!” he snaps. “Just don’t expect me to remember all of your stupid fucking gang signs!”  
  
Keeler ruffles Cain’s hair one last time and Cain shudders. “I only ask that you try.”  
  
A whistle blows signaling that the game is about to resume.   
  
Cain bumps into Praxis as they shuffle back into position, their turn to receive. He’s still got that big ugly frown on his face, but it’s less severe and more subdued, a typical expression that he wears on his face whenever Praxis has to share more than three seconds of breathing room with Cain. “Nice pass,” he compliments with all the joy of a patient pulling teeth. The words couldn’t sound more forced if Praxis tried.   
  
Cain smirks. “Just don’t expect me to toss the ball your way.”  
  
“Hah.” Praxis laughs, the sound almost genuine. “Right back atcha, asshole.” This time Praxis smiles with something like competitive spirit. Not that he’s directing it at Cain or anything.  
  
The game continues.  
  
And Sleipnir’s barely holding on. Kepler manage a few unexpected quicks of their own, catching Praxis and Encke off guard to narrow the score down to a one point game. 23-22. Sleipnir’s almost at set point, only one more to go after this to take the whole match. If they lose here, right now, they won’t be able to compete until spring of next year. So it’s all or nothing, the very end in sight. Hayden calls for Keeler, Encke, and Vicks to come back in and sends Helios, Selene, and Abel out. They’re going to need their best players on the court to wrap things up.   
  
“See?” Keeler says as he passes Abel on his way toward the bench. “Nothing to worry about! We scored plenty!”   
  
Abel high-fives his captain and hands over the card. “Thank you, Captain, for holding onto our lead. I’ll definitely score those last two points!”  
  
“You bet! Not so bad for an old senior, right?” Keeler chuckles and then motions for Abel to come closer. Abel leans in, ear close to Keeler’s mouth. “Just between you and me, and don’t tell him I said this, Cain doesn’t receive my tosses the same way he does yours. I’m a little jealous, but, well, what can I say! I’m not the one he gets fired up for.” Keeler pats Abel hard on the back and pulls back. “So go out there and win us the set, okay? I’ll be cheering you on from the bench!”  
  
Abel doesn’t know what to do with Keeler’s comment, or how to respond to it, he just knows that it makes both his head and step light and his heart inexplicably heavy. “I will!” he affirms, voice caught in his throat.   
  
The vast court seemingly widens before him, infinitely stretching outwards, an endless sea of hardwood, but this time Abel’s not afraid as he steps inside the white lines. He won’t falter or choke or stop racing to the top. Because he knows that if he falls, he’ll fall forward with pride, his head held high and heart firm, and there won’t be just one pair of arms pulling him back up on his feet.   
  
Cain gravitates toward Abel until he’s caught in his orbit, hovering close enough to share body heat and breath. “Ready to win this thing, princess?” he teases. His hand finds the small of Abel’s back and he lets it linger well past the cut-off point of being purely platonic.   
  
Abel takes a deep breath and nods, eyeing Athos from across the court. “You bet,” he answers. “They know I”ll be tossing to you. Think you can do it?”  
  
Cain snorts and leans down, his face uncomfortably close to Abel’s own. Abel licks his chapped lips and stares at Cain’s, then flickers up toward his eyes. They’re dark and blown wide. “Hitting’s the easy part. You just spike down and blast through. No big deal.” Cain stops smirking. “It’s finding the ball and  _trusting_  it’ll be there when you swing that’s hard. So how about it, sweetheart? You gonna make sure my palm hits that leather?” He’s joking, trying to laugh it off, but Cain’s uncharacteristically serious right now, laying everything bare under the hot stadium lights, all for Abel to see, as plain as the worry written all over his red face.   
  
Abel swallows, mouth suddenly dry and nods. “Wherever you jump, I’ll bring it. Every time! Because with me, you’re invincible, so there’s no way we can lose!”  
  
Cain’s jaw drops open, like he’s about to say something almost intelligent but the right syllables won’t come out, brain still processing the echoed sentence coming straight from Abel’s mouth. “You better,” he threatens without any of the bite, just a quiet sense of longing hidden behind his teasing words. “Because you’re the only one who’s supposed to kick my ass, not three fuckin’ trees and a spoiled brat with a temper.”  
  
Phobos sighs dramatically in the back. His yellow shirt is completely soaked with sweat. “Would you two hurry it up already? This is a volleyball match, not a staring contest!”  
  
Abel flushes bright red and quickly shuffles toward his spot. He’ll be setting from the front this rotation, to Cain right beside him.   
  
Praxis catches the ball and toes the line. He’s be serving this round. With his impressive height he doesn’t even need to jump to guarantee that the volleyball makes it over the net. Praxis tosses the Mikasa high into the air, winds back his arm, and swings, sending it flying towards the back. Porthos calls for the receive and rebounds it easily to Athos.   
  
“Front, front!” Abel shouts, reading his move.   
  
Athos moves into a setting position, ready to toss the ball, and then switches at the last second, left hand catching the Mikasa near the net as he gently spikes it down, dumping the ball on Sleipnir’s side of the court.   
  
“Shit!”  
  
Abel rushes forward and leaps for the save, hand outstretched as far as it can go, but he just barely misses, fingernails grazing the leather, and it rolls off, bouncing against the wood.   
  
23-23  
  
A tie game.   
  
Athos looks down at Abel from the other side of the net and smirks. “You’re not the only one with a few tricks up his sleeve.”  
  
Abel scowls and pushes himself back up. More hands than he can count help him back on his feet.   
  
“What a douchebag,” Selene mutters with arm around Abel’s back, supporting the setter’s weight.  
  
“Seriously,” Helios agrees. “What a dick.” He brushes the dirt off Abel’s jersey.   
  
Cain drops his hand to Abel’s head and grinds his palm down, mussing his blonde hair. “Don’t let ‘im get to your head, princess. He’s nothin’ special.”  
  
“Next chance, I’m tossing it your way.” Abel looks up at Cain and smirks. “You ready?”  
  
Cain snorts. “Don’t even need to ask, sweetheart.”  
  
Just two more points. Two more. Abel takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He lets the smell of Salonpas and sweat fill his nose. The bright stadium lights above buzz mutely, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. Keeler and Encke scream wildly from the bench. A drop of sweat slides down his face, hurdling over his bandage, and then catches on his lip. Abel licks and tastes salt. And, finally, opens his eyes.   
  
The view at the top, he can see it.   
  
Now the trick is to not look down.  
  
Athos serves next. The crowd chants  _olé_  as he jumps and propels the ball forward, aiming right for Phobos. He’s wiped and about ready to give up, but won’t. Not now. Phobos sprints left. The ball spins toward the back-most corner. It’ll just barely touch the line. He can’t get there in time if he dives, so Phobos tries the next best thing. He stretches his left leg and receives the ball with his foot, Mikasa bouncing high into the air as Phobos face-plants onto the wood, struggling to keep himself upright.   
  
Abel sees the ball flying back towards the net and races to intercept.   
  
Xenon jumps at the same time he does, almost within grasp, until Abel stretches that much farther, gripping the ball with the tips of his fingers and he weakly tosses behind him.  
  
Cain’s already in the air, spiking the ball down past Kepler’s blockers.   
  
It lands between the front zone and center line.   
  
The ref blows his whistle and the scorecard flips.  
  
24-23.  
  
Just one more point to go.  
  
Abel and Cain heatedly yell, fists balled and backs hunched as they try to contain their excitement. They’re so close. One more spike. One last toss!  
  
“Amazing save!” Helios grabs Phobos by the arm and hoists him back onto his feet. “Really, just wow! The way you dove for it with your foot like  _bam_!” He tries to mimic Phobos’ superior flexibility, but only ends up looking like an idiot incapable of standing.  
  
Phobos shoves Helios off of him and smooths back his hair. “Of course I saved it! What kind of libero would I be if I didn’t?! And you!” He points toward Abel accusingly. “I didn’t think you’d receive it. Not bad. You could’ve gotten there a bit faster though, don’t you think?”  
  
That’s the closest Phobos has ever come to paying Abel a compliment. “Next time,” Abel promises with a smile.   
  
Phobos rolls his eyes and saunters back toward his spot.   
  
Match point.   
  
And Sleipnir’s serve.  
  
Abel tries not to let the excitement get to his head. He’s high-strung and pure adrenaline, running on gut-feeling and intuition. One more spike. One more toss. One more super fast quick. One last play and they’ll take the set. He looks to Cain for reassurance. Cain’s covered in sweat and anxious, fingers fidgeting against his shorts as he waits for Helios to serve. He flashes Abel a cocky smile, silently telling him they’ll win this fucking thing. When a loud  _slap_  echoes behind them, Cain moves, already following the ball’s trajectory as he scopes out their opponents on the other side of the net.  
  
“Right!” Cain shouts, watching as Argon receives and then passes to number 8.  
  
The Kepler spiker jumps and angles the ball between Praxis and Selene.   
  
Praxis gets there first and blocks, arm stretching above the net to keep the ball from going over.  
  
Porthos saves it and easily passes back to Athos.   
  
_What’s he going to do? What’s he going to do?!_  Abel shifts from left to right, watching, waiting, trying to track the ball and Athos at the same time. Will he pass?! Will he spike?!   
  
Athos sets the ball back to Argon.  
  
But  _where_  will he spike?!  
  
Argon’s palm swings down, smacking the volleyball with a loud  _slap_.  
  
“Got it!” Selene races for the ball and receives it, sending the Mikasa Abel’s way.  
  
Should he pipe to Helios? Or maybe dump on his own? The ball moves in slow-motion as he thinks over his options. He could try passing to Praxis for another assist. Or—   
  
Abel meets Cain’s pitch black eyes halfway across the court, begging Abel to bring him the ball.   
  
So he does.  
  
“Cain!” Abel yells, putting his all into that one, perfect toss, releasing the ball with the tips of his fingers, blindingly fast and pinpoint accurate.   
  
Cain jumps, high, higher than he has the whole game and practically soars above them all, phantom wings carrying him closer and closer toward the net. He swings down with a shout, palm slapping hard against the leather, and grins.   
  
And then gapes when Porthos reaches his spike just in time, leaping into the air to block Cain’s attempt.  
  
The ball bounces down toward the court.  
  
Abel dives to save it, sliding on his stomach with his right hand stretched wide and—   
  
The whistle blows.  
  
—misses by a hair.  
  
24-24  
  
Tied at match point.  
  
The weight of ten thousand invisible bricks keeps him pinned to the court. Abel can’t move, can’t even breathe, without feeling the heaviness of crushing defeat overwhelming him. He won’t lift his head. He won’t look his teammates in the eye. He won’t even meet the gaze of his own reflection on the floor. Abel buries his face deeper into the crook of his arm and seethes, disappointment simmering to the top, bursting like little bubbles inside his brain, telling him to “stop”, “give up”, “you’ll never win now”. He blew it. He fucking blew it for the second time this game. That high, high wall looms angrily above him, growing taller and taller until Abel can’t even see the other side. The view closes up, blue skies turn to grey, and his whole world comes tumbling down one brick at a time.  
  
Two small hands grip the back of Abel’s jersey, forcing him onto his feet.   
  
He expects it to be Cain, maybe Helios, or even Praxis, but Abel doesn’t count on seeing Phobos right in front of him.   
  
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Phobos snaps. “This isn’t nap time, Abel! We’re in the middle of a fucking match!”  
  
Abel frowns and shoves Sleipnir’s libero away. “I know that!” he shouts back, blood boiling. Of course he knows they’re in a match! Every moment he’s not running attack patterns and scenarios in his head, Abel’s thinking, feeling, breathing the game through every pore in his body until he can’t even fathom anything else.  
  
“So start fucking acting like it then!” Phobos steps closer, narrowing the space between them until Abel can count every hair out of place. “You miss one stupid toss. Big fucking deal. Get a grip, Abel! The whole world hasn’t fallen onto  _your_ fucking shoulders!” He grabs Abel by the front of his jersey and stares point blank into Abel’s wide eyes. “You think you’re the only one who gives a damn about this game and that pisses me the hell off! Well I’ve got news for you, asshole, you’re not! We’re all trying to win! We’re all fighting to stay on this court for as long as we can! And just who the hell do you think’s been here the longest?!”  
  
Abel stops struggling and stares, the words slowly sinking in until they’ve clicked perfectly into place. Phobos is mean, short-tempered, and brash. He mocks the first years, talks back to their coach, and couldn’t be bothered to lend a helping hand. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Phobos lives and breathes volleyball, almost as much as Abel does. Most kids grew up with toy cars and plastic dolls, finger-paints and Play-Doh. But not Phobos. Phobos was raised on a green Spalding VB3, tossing and serving even before he could speak. He’s dedicated his whole life to this sport, playing and practicing with the best of the best, all the way from elementary up to now, university. He’d rather die than give up with his tail tucked between his legs.  
  
“I don’t give a damn if you want to crawl back to the bench like a little bitch and cry it out,” Phobos continues, letting Abel go. He stumbles backwards, still clutching his shirt. “But I’m staying right here, on this court, with my team. Whether you’re still standing here with us doesn’t matter to me. I only care about winning! So I’ll keep fighting because I’m strong! I’ve earned the right to keep playing! Can you honestly tell me that you deserve the same?”  
  
Abel swallows his jackrabbit heart back down into his chest, heaving for air with every second wasted. “I—” He pauses and then glances at his team, at the banner hanging behind him, at Hayden holding his clipboard, and then at Cain, still staring right at him. Abel balls his hands into fists and exhales a shaky laugh. “I’m not giving up! I won’t leave this court until we’ve won the whole set!”  
  
Phobos snorts and then smirks. “You better not. I’ve come too far to let you, of all people, ruin my dreams.”  
  
They share the same end goal: to play in the Olympics for the gold ol’ US of A. Phobos won’t settle for less than gold, and Abel’s come to feel the exact same way.   
  
“Go ahead and set up your stupid quick again.” Phobos turns to head back toward his spot furthest from the center, where he’s always been. “I’ll watch your back. After all…” He crouches into position, palms resting on his kneepads, and flashes teeth. “That’s my job.”  
  
The whistle blows, piecing through the air.  
  
Abel jogs to the front, poised for Kepler’s serve.   
  
He won’t let them score.  
  
Not for himself, but for his team. Because they’re in this together. Every last one of them. Whether you start or bench-warm, change towels or fill water bottles. It doesn’t matter. Every single member is important. There are no useless positions on Sleipnir’s volleyball team. So he’ll make this point and the next and the one after that count. He’ll keep fighting till the end. Until they’re all at the summit, together, watching the sun set behind them.  
  
“Resuming play!” the announcer states over the microphone, words blaring through the speakers.   
  
Two more points.   
  
He can do this.  
  
He  _will_  do this!  
  
Abel closes his eyes.   
  
And remembers how to breathe.  
  
The game continues for another thirty minutes, neither side giving in, until the score reads 28-27, Sleipnir in the lead by one point. They need another to steal the set. Just one more and they’ll have earned the right to keep playing. To keep walking this path they’ve carved out for themselves.   
  
“What should we do?” Helios whispers from the rear. He rubs the base of his buzzed head and wipes the sweat dripping down his face. They’re getting tired again, running back and forth across the court without any breaks in between. “Abel?”  
  
Abel tenses. He could analyze the situation, come up with a halfway decent plan if he tried, but something inside tells him he won’t have to. Because the answer they’re looking for can’t be formulated or compiled. “We’ll just play how we feel,” Abel answers, shrugging his shoulders. “Just let the ball come and see what happens.”  
  
Helios smirks. “Gotcha!” he laughs. “We’re going balls to the wall! Well not literally, because then we’d lose the point.”  
  
Selene groans. “No more puns before the serve!”  
  
Kepler’s Spoiled Prince has control of the ball. He steps, left foot forward, and takes a deep breath. This is their last shot at defending the set. He’ll probably be looking to score a quick service ace before Sleipnir can ride their momentum any further. Athos bounces the ball once, twice, and then tosses, running forward to leap high into the air. He slaps the ball with the full weight of his palm, opting for brute force instead of his usual smoke and mirrors.   
  
The Mikasa sails across the net with just the right amount of spin.   
  
“Got it!” Praxis calls, bending his knees and steadying his arms to receive the serve. The ball ricochets off as he passes it back to Phobos.   
  
“Nice receive!” Helios yells, covering what Praxis can’t.   
  
Phobos spots the ball coming his way and searches for Abel near the front. He passes, wordlessly communicating through shared thought and drive, letting the ball go wherever it wants to.   
  
Abel races into position and falls into a setting stance. He won’t think, he’ll just toss and see what comes next. The moment the ball falls into his hands, he pushes off, eyes closed, and lets go, control slipping away into someone else’s waiting palm.   
  
The ball reaches its apex at the exact same moment Cain reaches his, right hand crashing down without hesitation, like he was expecting Abel to toss it right there and then, at that exact location, this whole time, just for him.   
  
Kepler struggles to regroup, not prepared for Abel and Cain’s fastest quick yet, as they all dive for the Mikasa crashing down.   
  
A blur of arms and legs scramble for the save.  
  
Number 28 sprints to the left, all the way to the outside by the line.  
  
The ball ricochets off his arm, soaring backwards, out of control and out of bounds.  
  
Athos races to catch up before it can touch the ground.  
  
He holds out his right hand, reaching, stretching, forcing himself to extend.   
  
The ball dips.  
  
And Athos dives.  
  
Everything comes crashing down.   
  
A whistle blows.  
  
“Point!”  
  
The scorecard flips.   
  
29-27  
  
Sleipnir’s taken the set!   
  
The whole team explodes, shouting and howling with joy.   
  
Audience members in the stands go wild, on their feet with applause.   
  
Cain rushes toward Abel and drags him into a hug, wrapping his arms so tight Abel thinks he might burst. Helios crashes into them next, screaming in Cain’s ear. And then it’s a race to see who can dogpile the fastest until they’re a giant mess of sweaty limbs and tears. Even Phobos joins in, quietly laughing on the outside of their group huddle. Their teammates on the bench go wild, chanting their school's name and motto— _Race to Victory!_  Selene slides his hand into Helios’ just as Praxis pats the top of Abel’s head. Keeler, Encke, Ethos, and Deimos rush to congratulate them and become part of the chaos. No one can stop them. Not now. Not ever. This is only the beginning, the first page in their book. It won’t be easy, anything worthwhile rarely is, but there are some sights you can only see from the top. And they’re prepared to climb mountains to achieve their dreams.   
  
“You need one more set to win!” Athos sneers from the other side, shouting across what feels like miles of emptiness. He’s far away and nonexistent, barely an iota in their minds.   
  
Abel looks over his shoulder and grins. “Then try and take it from us!” he shouts. “If you think that you can!”  
  
Athos scowls, but doesn’t answer.  
  
Because he knows that Kepler can’t.  
  
Sleipnir win the match, taking set three with relative ease. Kepler can’t hold their momentum at bay and end up losing 25-19.   
  
The referee calls them all to line up so they can shake hands.   
  
Abel extends his toward Athos under the net.   
  
“Not bad,” the Prince admits, devious glint in his eye. “You won’t be so lucky next tournament, though.” Athos speaks with an air of superiority, but he’s gutted, insides twisting with jealousy because Sleipnir gets to move on while Kepler remains stagnant, stationary, until spring of next year.  
  
Abel smiles right back and grips firmly, not letting go until Athos does. “It wasn’t luck that got us here. But I’ll be looking forward to our next game.”  
  
Their match ends and another begins.  
  
Sleipnir will play again tomorrow, against whoever wins next  
  
But for now, they’re finished, and heading straight to dinner. Hayden’s paying for every single one of their meals, a celebratory buffet to congratulate them on a job well done. Sleipnir’s players filter onto the bus, cramming by two’s into their seats.  
  
Abel settles in near the back and switches off the spotlight above. They’re all tired and boneless, barely conscious when the engine starts and the wheels slowly roll away.   
  
Cain finds him—he always does—and plops down into the empty seat beside him. “You awake?” he asks, voice thick and rough. Everyone else in front of them has either passed out or tuned out. Snores echo up and down the aisle and anyone else not asleep is wearing a pair of earbuds or headphones to block out the sound. The driver turns off the lights to let the players get some rest.   
  
Abel mumbles a quiet “no” and straightens in his seat, melting into the cushions. He watches Cain’s face change from red to green, car lights and neon signs washing his tan skin in a technicolor collage of bright hues and muted whites. And then nothing at all as they pass under a dark tunnel.   
  
“Good,” Cain breathes.   
  
Abel’s about to ask why when he feels something wet and warm moving against his lips. It takes all fifteen seconds that they’ve spent trapped in darkness for Abel to realize that Cain’s kissing him, rough and demanding, yet inexplicably soft. Abel’s eyes flutter closed and he kisses Cain back, fingers inching across the armrest for Cain’s waiting hand. He grips tightly, curling each digit into Cain’s palm until the message gets across and Cain surges forward, pressing Abel into the window, one calloused hand cupping his jaw.   
  
Abel whines when Cain pulls back, barely getting a taste of what he’s been aching for this whole time. And Cain chuckles, amused. “Relax, princess,” he teases. “I’ll give you that and more when we get back.”  
  
“And more?” Abel repeats, cheeks flushing a bright red. He swallows dryly, trying not to get excited about just what that might entail.   
  
“One thing at a time, sweetheart.” Cain tries to look cool, but he’s just as anxious as Abel is. “You’re always twenty steps ahead. Slow down. First thing’s first. We get back, we shower, we gorge ourselves on free food, and then.” Cain leans closer. His warm breath tickles Abel’s skin. “And then I’ll show you something nice.”  
  
If he weren’t so tired, Abel’d be crawling right out of his skin. But he is, so he doesn’t, and melts into Cain’s instead. “Or you could show me right now,” he whispers into the shell of Cain’s ear, feeling a little bold in his fatigued state.   
  
Cain snorts. “Keep that up and I won’t show you jack shit until after we’ve won gold.”  
  
“Gold?” Abel asks.   
  
“Yeah. In the Olympics.”  
  
“You want me to play with you in the Olympics?”   
  
That’s always been a dream of his, to represent his country far from home. He just never realized that Cain shared it, too. “Well, yeah,” Cain laughs. “Who the fuck else is gonna toss to me? Unless you’ve got another pansy ass setter in mind.”  
  
Abel frowns. “No,” he deadpans. “You don’t need anyone else.”  
  
Cain settles into his seat and gravitates toward Abel’s side, their arms brushing, and fingers lacing. “Damn straight,” he agrees before drifting off to sleep, his head propped on top of Abel’s as they dream of blue skies, foreign lands, and endlessly high mountaintops. 

**Author's Note:**

> re-post from my [dreamwidth](https://sop.dreamwidth.org/2368.html#cutid1).
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/boysthighs) // [tumblr](http://boy-thighs.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [super awesome, amazing, wonderful fanart from riseelectric once again!](http://riseelectric.tumblr.com/post/129400953037/everyone-go-read-boy-thighss-haikyuustarfighter)


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